by Hamel, B. B.
I finished scrubbing my shoes. Her dad’s blood came out mostly. They weren’t ruined, at least.
I stopped near a control panel for my alarm system next to the front door. I flipped it open, typed in my passcode, and armed it. Now if she left the apartment, the thing would start blaring.
I hurried into my bedroom and shut the door before it fully activated.
The space was gloomy and small, dominated by a big bed. I leaned up against the door and shut my eyes, squeezing them hard.
I couldn’t remember the last time I lived with a woman. Probably not since I was a teenager, stuck in my father’s house. There were always women around my father’s house, so many women, cycling in and out. Few stayed for very long, except for my mother. She lasted the longest, but even she went sooner or later.
Now I had Tara, my test and my gift.
Some fucking gift. She was gorgeous, I could admit to that, but I didn’t want her, and had no clue what the hell I’d do with her now.
That was a problem for tomorrow. I stripped off my clothes and got into bed. Downstairs, the sound of laughing people eating good enchiladas and drinking copious inexpensive Coronas drifted up through my floorboards, and lulled me to sleep.
2
Tara
I woke up in a psycho’s apartment and had no clue what I was going to do.
Early dawn sunlight streamed in through the blinds. The sound of people eating and the horrible smell of their food drifted around me most of the night. I’d barely been able to sleep. I kept feeling the hot slash of flames against my face, and felt the burning tug of ash in my throat as I tried to scream my father’s name. It was too late though, his body already crumpled and dead.
My whole life, burned to nothing.
And that psycho in the other room acted like it was no big deal.
I stared at the ceiling. Small, spiderwebbed cracks ran through the paint. I wondered if he was lying, all that stuff about them killing me if I ran away. I decided he probably wasn’t and that scared me even more.
I sat up and my head pounded. The room was simply furnished with a bureau and a nightstand. A small Timex clock showed it was just after six in the morning, the letters glowing red. There were no personal photos anywhere in the apartment, which I thought was strange.
I had pictures at home. Or I used to anyway. Pictures of myself and my mother before she left, pictures of my father before he’d spiraled into anger and drinking, pictures of myself when I was younger and still happy.
This guy had nothing, like his life didn’t even exist. There were paintings, and drawings, and a gorgeous rug on the floor, and the furniture all looked expensive and wood and custom made, but there was no character to any of it.
Like I was in some magazine spread. Gorgeous and impersonal.
I got up and opened the door. I used the bathroom, glanced through the medicine cabinet for something to use as a weapon—a razor, some scissors, anything—then walked toward the kitchen.
He stood with his back to the doorway, looking out over the living room while he pushed down the plunger of a French press.
I considered grabbing a knife from the block nearby and plunging it into the thick muscle on his back. I tried to remember his name, but couldn’t.
I kept seeing him pull the trigger. I kept seeing my dad’s head snap back as his blood and brains drenched the couch behind him. I screamed, then threw myself at the other guy, the one named Dean, and he’d punched me hard in the face. Things were fuzzy after that, until I was on my knees in the back yard.
None of it made sense. I knew my dad was involved with some shady people, but those guys acted like they were part of some organized crime family. They mentioned the Healys—but I had nothing to do with them. They were distantly related on my mother’s side and she’d always told me stories about them getting into trouble, stealing things and selling drugs, but I had no clue what they were doing these days.
“You want some coffee?” he asked, and I nearly screamed. I covered my mouth, heart suddenly racing, pulsing in a quivering uneven thump. I breathed hard to steady myself as he finished pushing down the plunger. He poured a mug and slid it to me over the counter.
He was shirtless, and his muscular chest was covered in tattoos. I gaped at his defined chest and abs, at the cut V that led down into his loose, light sweats. Cursive words scrawled beneath his collarbones: God Judges.
His eyes were deep green and his hair jet black. His jaw was square, and his nose crooked, like it’d been broken too many times to set properly. His cheeks were covered in the hint of a beard, and he was handsome, god, he was handsome, and he scared me, those dead and gorgeous eyes, those tattoos.
I picked up the coffee and it burned my tongue.
He poured some for himself then brushed past me. He sat at the small, round kitchen table that was placed outside of the living room area. I stayed in the kitchen, and kept the counter between us. I felt safer with some distance.
The apartment was like a museum. I had trouble connecting the brutal, cold killer from the night before with the profusion of beautiful drawings, plants, rugs, statues, vases, and pillows. He watched me, his face carefully composed. I took another sip, burned my mouth again, and looked away.
“I need new clothes,” I said. “These smell like smoke.”
He grunted softly. “I have something that might fit.”
“Were you lying last night?” I asked suddenly, the words spilling out. I felt stupid and useless, and I couldn’t meet his gaze.
“About what?” he asked.
“Running away. Would they kill me?”
He let out a soft laugh. “You’ve been wondering all night, I bet.”
He was right. I kept thinking about it, over and over, weighing the situation in my mind. Part of me wanted to throw open the window and scream until someone called the cops, but I was terrified he’d get rid of me before they showed up. He said he didn’t want to kill me—he said that he wouldn’t kill me—but that didn’t mean I could push him too far.
There were things worse than dying.
“I don’t understand what you want from me,” I said.
He shook his head and held the coffee in both hands. “I don’t want anything from you,” he said. “If it were up to me, you’d get on a bus to California right now and never look back. But it’s not up to me.”
“I don’t know the Healys,” I said. “We’re barely related. My dad might’ve talked to them sometimes, and they’re my mom’s cousins, but she’s been gone for years and I never see them.” I felt desperate and stupid, and he looked more bored than anything else.
“I believe you,” he said. “It doesn’t change anything.” He took a deep breath like he was smelling the coffee, then took a long sip. Silence fell over us, and I studied him, trying to understand this monster. He murdered my father in cold blood—and now he looked like he was savoring his morning hot beverage.
I expected a shithole filled with drugs and body parts in the freezer. Instead, there was a mohair throw blanket over an Eames chair, and I was pretty sure I saw a big bottle of kombucha in the door of the refrigerator.
“You haven’t answered my question yet,” I said.
He smiled a little. “I think they’d kill you,” he said. “Don Valentino doesn’t like loose ends. Your father was a loose end. And you’d be one too, especially considering you met the Don’s son.”
“I don’t care about that,” I said, feeling desperate. “Please, you could let me go—”
“Let me stop you there,” he said, putting his mug down. He shifted toward me and stood. I marveled at his height and his size, and despite the fact that he was a brutal monster, he still looked like an underwear model.
I hated him suddenly, with an intensity that threatened to drown me.
He came toward me and leaned over the counter.
“I might not want to kill you. I don’t even want to hurt you. Frankly, I wish you weren’t here. But I will do as th
e Don instructs me, up to a point at least. If they come for your life, I won’t stop them. I’m not your friend, and I’m not going to help you.”
“I know you’re not my friend,” I said, feeling a spike of rage. I thought of my house—all my things, my past and my future, all of it was gone. I’d had a wad of cash under my mattress, tips from countless hours of boring waitressing worth a few thousand at least, burned to a crisp. My high school diploma, my yearbook, my laptop and my cellphone, all my clothes, my shoebox with notes from old high school boyfriends, the collage of pictures my best friend, Kate, made when we were in ninth grade, my SAT prep book marked up in highlighter and never put to use, my collection of Supernatural DVDs, the scarf my mother sent me from Ireland, all the birthday cards I’d accumulated from friends, from my grandparents, from my dad back when he gave a shit, all of it gone.
My entire life gone, because of this bastard. And he had the gall to suggest I might think he was my friend.
He wasn’t a friend. He was my kidnapper, and I wanted him dead.
He tilted his head and smiled at me. It was almost charming, if it didn’t make me sick.
“Good,” he said. “If you want to get through this alive, then you need to play it smart and listen to what I tell you. I don’t care either way whether you live or you die, but your death is slightly more inconvenient, and despite what you may think, I’m not a monster.”
I laughed at that. It was a demon saying he wasn’t evil. It was a stainless-steel pot saying it wasn’t silver. This man was a monster, all right, whether he wanted to admit it or not.
“So I should keep quiet and play the obedient captive, is that right?”
“More or less,” he said, and a little smile played at his lips. “Unless you want to be more than a captive. I don’t take women against their will, but if you came on your own power—”
I moved my hand back and slapped him across the face.
It made a resounding clap of skin against skin. His head barely turned, and his cheek turned slightly pink. His eyes narrowed, and he touched his face with his fingertips, like he was more surprised than hurt. I stared in shock, my mouth hanging open.
It just happened. I didn’t think about it. The idea of sleeping with him flashed into my brain, and it made me react with violence. I felt sick, my stomach churning, and I hated him, hated him so much, and even more for suggesting that I’d ever touch him like a lover.
His face remained almost impassive. It was strange and disconcerting, the way he looked with me with those beautiful, expressionless eyes. “If you do that again,” he said softly, “then I will put you in handcuffs for the rest of your time here. Do you hear me?”
“Yes,” I said, and slowly lowered my arm down to my side, trembling with adrenaline and terror. I hit the monster, and I baited him, like I wanted him to hit back.
He held my gaze for another moment then returned to his seat at the table. “Here are the rules. You’re not allowed out of his apartment without me. I will provide whatever you want, but you have to ask for it. My room is off limits, but everything else is fair game. If I see you so much as look at my phone, or think about escaping, I’ll lock you in your room. If you give me trouble, I’ll handcuff you to the bed. If you scream, I’ll strip you naked and gag you with your own panties.” He paused and held me with his gaze. “I told you I won’t kill you, and I won’t take you without your permission, but I will make your life unpleasant if you can’t figure out how to control yourself.”
“I understand,” I said, and the words came out choked. I felt tears in my eyes again and I had to blink them away. I couldn’t cry in front of this monster. I remembered the way he reacted like night, like my tears were the most disgusting thing he’d ever seen, like I was a cockroach, mutating in front of him.
His lips curled again. “Good,” he said. “Go back to your room for now. I’ll bring fresh clothes.”
I nodded and turned away. I made it to the hall before he said my name. I looked back at him, and my tears rolled down my cheeks.
He stared at the floor.
“You’ll survive this if you play along,” he said. “Do you understand me? Killing you in inconvenient. You’re not important enough to murder. So play the game, keep your mouth shut, and you’ll be okay.”
“Promise?” I asked.
He only laughed, and I felt like an asshole. I left him and returned to my room with the mug of coffee in my hand.
It was good, rich and strong, with a slight berry after-flavor. I sat on the edge of the bed and looked at the patterned Persian rug beneath my feet. Out in the other room, a beast waited for me, and I knew what he was thinking.
He wanted me to screw up, so he could take advantage.
But I wouldn’t do that. My father was dead and my life was burned to the ground—but I would survive this.
And when I did, I’d kill that bastard for what he’s doing, and my smiling face would be the last thing he saw.
3
Ewan
Tara was a problem.
I didn’t know what the hell to do with some random girl. I found clothes in the back of my closet that might fit her, some stuff an ex left once upon a time, back when I was dating. Clara thought we were something we’d never be, and she slowly started leaving outfits at my place, until one day I found some of her underwear neatly folded in my sock drawer, and broke things off the next morning.
Now I piled what she’d left on the floor outside of Tara’s door. I figured it would fit well enough, and we could buy her new things when she was ready.
I gave her that afternoon to get her shit together. The clothes disappeared into the bedroom, and she came out around noon for something to eat. We didn’t speak, and I stayed on the couch, reading and watching football. She disappeared back into her room after making herself a sandwich.
That night, I stared at the ceiling and imagined her sneaking into my room. I didn’t know what the fuck was wrong with me. If I needed pussy, I could get pussy—but it wasn’t like that. I pictured Tara straddling me, kissing me, and whispering in my ear. I didn’t know what she said, but it made me smile, whatever it was.
That’d never happen.
The girl hated my guts. And frankly, she was annoying as all hell.
She was a real goddamn problem.
I got up early the next morning, made breakfast, and knocked on her door. She answered, eyes bleary. “Yeah?” she said, wearing a long t-shirt that barely covered her ass.
“Get dressed,” I said, and thrust a bowl of oatmeal at her. “Eat this. We’re going out.”
“Going out?” She frowned down at the bowl like she’d never seen food before. “What is that?”
“Oatmeal and blueberries. It’s good.” I wiggled it until she took the bowl and the spoon.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“I have errands to run and I think it’d be good for you to get out into the world.” I tilted my head to the side. “You won’t give me shit, will you?”
“I don’t know,” she said, taking a bit and chewing. Her face lit up a little bit, but quickly muted as she met my eyes. “Are we killing anyone?”
I smiled and was tempted to touch her cheek. That girl was clever, I’d give her that. “Not today,” I said. “I hope, at least.” I left her then and I heard her door shut.
The girl was going to be some serious, high-grade, supercharged capital-T Trouble.
She came out wearing her black jeans and one of my ex’s shirts. It was a button-down blouse, dark blue, slightly sheer. I could see the vague outline of her black bra over her full breasts. I didn’t bother to hide my gaze, and she didn’t try to pretend like she didn’t notice.
“Come on,” I said, and we headed downstairs. My car was parked halfway up the block, a small black BMW, almost as dinged and beat-up as Dean’s Jeep. Tara made a little face as she climbed into the passenger side.
“What’s with the beat-up cars?” she asked.
“Nice
cars get attention,” I said, and pulled out into traffic.
She leaned back in the seat and stared out the window. I could guess what she was thinking—probably wondered if there was a way to escape. Maybe she could jump out at a light, if she were fast enough, and maybe she could get lost in the crowds in Center City. I doubted it though. I was good at following people, assuming I’d follow.
If she was thinking it, she didn’t try. I appreciated that. Sooner or later, she’d make an attempt, but it was nice that she was playing the game for now. I drove around City Hall and headed north toward Fairmount. I turned right and rolled toward the river.
“Are you going to tell me what we’re doing?” she asked as I pulled up outside of a nondescript tan building. The windows were covered over with paper, and there was a simple sign up above the red door: Larry’s Club.
“We’re here to see Larry,” I said, killing the engine.
“Who the hell is Larry?”
I got out and headed toward the door. She followed reluctantly, but kept her distance. I pushed the door open and stepped into a short, dark hall that opened up through some thick velvet curtains that smelled like smoke into a large open room with a stage at one end and a bar on the right. The silver pole glittered, even with the house lights up.
Larry sat at the bar, drinking coffee and counting out cash. He was always there, day and night. He loved his goddamn club, with its worn-out strippers and its drunk clientele. Someone got beat up and robbed in this place at least once per week, but Larry couldn’t give it up.
He was heavyset and older, well into his sixties. His was nearly bald on top but he still wore what was left of his hair long and pulled into a ponytail. His goatee was trimmed carefully, and his Hawaiian shirt looked like it had enough cloth for a sailboat. He looked over as I approached, and Tara lingered near the door, looking disgusted and uncomfortable.
“Ewan,” he said, and gave me an awkward laugh. He definitely wasn’t happy to see me. Not that I could blame him.
